


5 Times Mickey Called Ian and 1 Time Ian Calls Mickey

by koel7



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Canon, But Like Kind Of, Gay Panic, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Introspection, M/M, Mentioned Monica Gallagher, Personal Growth, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2020-12-14 18:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21020018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koel7/pseuds/koel7
Summary: “He wouldn’t,” he mutters, crouching down to pick him the phone. “He’s not that stupid. This is a dream. I’m just missing him. He’s not that fucking stupid.”The phone continues ringing.“Jesus,” Ian closes his eyes and flips the phone open to bring it to his ear.





	1. Contrary to what Ian Thinks, Mickey is that Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS NOT CANNON PAST SEASON 8, EPISODE 5!!  
I took a break from watching Shameless a couple of episodes into the season, so there will be inconsistencies, the biggest being the absence of the Gay Jesus arc. A couple of scenes that did appear in the show will pop up, but it'll mostly be focused on Ian & Mickey, and the premise that Mickey is still on the run in Mexico.  
I hope you enjoy the read, and leave a comment for any mistakes I have to fix or friendly advice!! 
> 
> P.S: If you click on the link for the song, right-click it to open it in a new tab :)

_Suggested Song: [You Won't be Coming Home - Air Review ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NmDu4xi6JvY)_

The first time it happens, Ian is so struck by what happened the last time a stranger had pushed into him that he even forgets to curse out the fucker. He is brought back to reality when the phone on the ground starts ringing shrilly.

“He wouldn’t,” he mutters, crouching down to pick him the phone. “He’s not that stupid. This is a dream. I’m just missing him. He’s _not_ that fucking _stupid_.”

The phone continues ringing.

“Jesus,” Ian closes his eyes and flips the phone open to bring it to his ear.

“Yo Firecrouch,” a familiar voice greets. “How you feelin’ after ditching me at the border?”

“Jesus,” Ian repeats, sitting down on the sidewalk, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the Lisas walking past him. “You’re really that stupid.”

“Yeah, nice talking to you too, fucker,” Mickey chuckles amicably. “And this is from a payphone.”

“Don’t they have cameras?”

“Mexico, man,” Ian can almost see Mickey right in front of him, rolling his eyes. “Plus, I made some friends.”

“Mickey Milkovich, playing nice?” Ian teases. “What a fucking surprise. Hell must have frozen over.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey laughs. “Need friends in this kinda place, man.”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, and falls silent for a second, realizing what thin ice they were both treading on. Either of them could be caught and put in prison but _fuck_, it was good to hear Mickey’s voice again. It was good to know he was alive, that leaving him at that border hadn’t ensured his death.

“I, uh,” Mickey clears his throat on the other line. “I miss you.”

Ian hides a smile as he thinks about how five years ago Mickey couldn’t even admit he cared for Ian, let alone outright say he missed him.

Although, lots of things had changed since then, hadn’t they?

“I miss you too,” Ian replies, running his hand through his hair. “I’m, I’m sorry I –”

“No, you’re not,” Mickey sighs. “And it’s okay. I know they’re important to you. They always have been. South Side rules, right? Family first, every fucking thing else the second. I’d have done the same if I had someone back home to worry about.”

“Still,” Ian says as he thinks of Fiona telling him how being with Mickey would only ruin his life. “It was a shitty thing to do.”

“Glad I had some time with you before I left anyway,” Mickey says.

“Me too,” Ian agrees wholeheartedly. Sure, it majorly fucked up his relationship with Trevor, but Jesus, this was fucking _Mickey Milkovich_. How could he say no? How could he ignore him when he thought about him every fucking day after him getting incarcerated for trying to kill his bitch of a sister, Sammi?

“How’s uh, that boyfriend of yours?” Mickey asks a little brusquely. Ian can hear him shuffling around in the background.

“We broke up,” Ian says simply. “He couldn’t be with me after knowing I left him for three days to run away to Mexico with my fugitive boyfriend.”

“Ah,” Mickey says. “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Bet you’re not, asshole,” Ian chuckles. “So, uh, how’s it going?”

“Not bad,” Mickey says. “Crashing at some dude’s place about forty miles from the capital.”

“Mexico City?” Ian raises his eyebrow. “Isn’t that a little risky?”

“Always best to hide in plain sight,” Mickey explains. “And it’s pretty damn nice out here. Got all the good qualities of Chicago and none of the drama. Plus, this guy’s hooking me up with some good weed so I’m definitely not complaining.”

“Please tell me you’re not spending all my money on weed, Mick,” Ian laughs for a moment. He then remembers they never talked about that – Ian had left the money in the car deliberately, he had had no intentions of taking it back. How would that look anyway, after he withdrew all his cash only to deposit it back within a span of 24 hours?

Plus, Mickey needs it more than him – not that he would ever ask, the proud fucker – so that was that.

“Yeah, uh,” Mickey clears his throat on the other end of the line, “thanks for that. You know you didn’t have to, right?”

“’Course I knew,” Ian replies gruffly. “I did it because I wanted to.”

“Thanks again,” Mickey says. Ian can almost imagine him looking away, trying to think of another subject to talk about.

“ – where are you?”

“Hmm?” Ian is snapped back to reality when Mickey asks the question, realizing the man has been ranting about his location for the past few minutes whilst Ian fantasied about his face. “Oh, I’m in front of my house. You know how that looks, of course.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, his voice off. “Porch?”

“No,” Ian says quietly. “The sidewalk.”

“Oh.”

Ian remembers what happened the last time they were on the porch together. The words exchanged, Sammi coming around the corner, a mad gleam in her eyes and Mickey’s low curse as he ran past Fiona and Vee, past the Gallagher house, past Ian... Suddenly, Ian can’t stop remembering – oh, the shit Mickey had to put up with as Ian refused to take the one thing that could really calm him down. The countless amount of times Mickey stroked his back and murmured sweet nothings as Ian came out of a drug-induced haze, the constant protection and love that poured out of the man in waves while Ian went out and fucked other men behind his back.

“I’m sorry,” Ian blurts out, unable to hold it in anymore, unable to think about anything else but Mickey’s face, Mickey’s touch, Mickey’s _love_.

“About what?” The man asks in a detached voice, as if he, too, was thinking about everything that had happened on that porch that day.

“Everything,” Ian says quietly. “I – I was a mess, I was a fucking _mess_, Mick. All I knew then was that I had whatever Monica had and that I didn’t want to turn out like her. I thought not taking my meds would help me or prove that I didn’t have what she had. But I ended up being exactly like her. I am _exactly_ like her,” his voice trails off as he thinks about Monica and her meth head boyfriend who wanted nothing but a quick fuck and a woman to worship him.

Would he end up like that? A desperate man searching for love and addicted to sex, booze, and drugs?

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey’s voice is tight. “Jesus, Gallagher, what the fuck –”

Oh. Ian didn’t realize he had said the last part out loud.

“You’re nothing like Monica,” Mickey continues fiercely. “She had no one around her to support her; for fucks sake, she was dating _Frank_. He did nothing but encourage her, c’mon. You have so many more people around you to support you or kick your ass into an institute if they need to. Fiona and Debbie would force your mouth open and make you swallow those pills if they had to; Carl and Lip’d beat the shit out of you until you knew what was happening. Ian, they _care_. They only want to help you however shitty their way is of showing it.”

Ian is quiet.

“I, uh,” he finally says, his voice cracking. He clears his throat. “I didn’t know you felt that way, Mick.”

“Interesting,” Mickey chuckles bitterly. “Everything I did was to show how much I love –” He stops abruptly, and Ian is once again sharply reminded of their circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says lowly, unsure if the black-haired man could even hear him on the other line.

“Whatever, man,” Mickey clicks his tongue. “How’s everyone else?”

“Debbie has a baby,” Ian says.

“Damn, really?” Mickey whistles. “Wow. Bet the kid’s cute.”

“Frannie,” Ian smiles, thinking of his niece. “Yeah, she’s really cute. Got the red hair and big green eyes that makes everyone want to do everything for her.”

“How did Fiona take it?”

“It was hell at first,” Ian shakes his head absently. “Fiona was furious – couldn’t understand why Debbie didn’t use birth control or get an abortion. Debs even left for a while and the two were just stone-cold bitches to each other for most of her pregnancy and even a while after Frannie was born. Sometimes I’m not sure they’re truly okay with each other but they’re at least holding it together for now.”

“Damn,” Mickey says, his voice thick. Ian suddenly remembers that Mickey has a child too, and he wasn’t exactly the best husband to Svetlana when she was pregnant.

“Yevgeny’s fine,” Ian says quietly. “So is Svetlana, she’s actually with Kev and Vee now. They’re a throuple or some shit like that but they both have a roof over their heads and food.”

“Good,” Mickey replies after some time. “She, uh, she actually sent me divorce papers when I was still in prison. I signed them, but I didn’t think of asking her how she or Yev,” his voice cracks, “were. I was distracted and just glad I had one thing off my back, I guess. But it’s good they’re happy.”

“Mickey,” Ian hesitates. How does he ask the person he once thought was the love of his life – not that he still doesn’t, sometimes – if he was okay after everything Ian had done to him? Mickey hadn’t been fine living five minutes away from him, now he was five days away and a fugitive with a glowing prison record in fucking _Mexico_.

When Mickey had asked him to come with him, Ian had foolishly agreed; drunk on seeing and being able to touch the older man again and high on the joints Mickey kept pulling out. As he smoked, all he saw were blurry images where Mickey and he would be safe and in love and everything would end happily. He’d be one of those princesses at the end of the fairy tale getting a happily-ever-after.

Of course, Ian ditched Mickey at the literal last minute and saw him drive past the border and further away from Ian every second.

“I gotta go, Gallagher,” Mickey says quickly. “I’ll talk to you sometime.”

“Bye,” Ian says, but the line is already dead.


	2. Mutual Misery over Missed Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s wrong? Ian hasn’t had anyone ask that before. Everyone asked how he was feeling and whether he was holding up okay.
> 
> What was wrong? His mom died, that’s what’s wrong. The shittiest mom in the world, who showed up with ditzy partners – once a lesbian, once a druggie, once a stranger – and lies, who came with mismatched toys, who dumped baby after baby on his older sister’s lap. She died, leaving behind 70 pounds of meth and heartbreak – what a mother!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone's day is going well!! 
> 
> If you didn't get a chance to read the previous chapter's notes, I basically said this fic isn't following the canon series past a couple of episodes into season 8 :)  
A reminder that if you want to check out the song attached, open it in a new tab so it doesn't interfere with your reading.
> 
> Leave any feedback or nice comments below; happy reading!

_ **Song of the Day: [It’s Only Right – Wallows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p5bQFj6z5fo)**_

Ian is now on the lookout for strangers bumping into him and dropping phones on the ground.

Every time someone pushes past him and mutters a quick “sorry”, he pauses for a moment and waits for a ringing sound that never comes. He then sighs and goes on his way, his heart clenching a little with every step he takes. He goes through each day in a daze, his mind repeating the brief phone call he had with Mickey over and over again.

He thinks this is partly the reason he tries to win back Trevor – he misses warmth and companionship. He can’t have Mickey, so why let go of the only person who made his heart pound nearly as much as Mickey did?

Caleb was a good fuck and merely a replacement for Mickey, but Ian would always be grateful to him for pushing him to become an EMT. He had some warped views, but he was a pretty good person to have around.

Trevor, however, had Ian interested from the moment he laid eyes on him. He made Ian’s eyes follow him wherever he went, and he made Ian _want_ to please him, want to learn more about a community he was part of and knew the bare minimum about. He supposes he is trying to move on from Mickey, he is trying to live his life to the fullest, because he knows there’s no way he’ll be reunited with Mickey anytime soon.

Maybe this is the reason why he agrees to Trevor’s idea of having sex with the chubby guys. In the midst of grunts and groans, he wonders what the fuck he’s doing and why he’s fucking a stranger that holds next to no sexual appeal to him, and not in Toluca somewhere – yes, he had searched up cities up to forty miles away from Mexico City – fucking Mickey. This all creeps in when he’s crying in the arms of the guy, although he pushes it away with thoughts of Monica.

Jesus. Monica.

She was such a _bitch,_ but she was his _mom_. She took him to his first gay club. She was wholeheartedly supportive when he came out, not wondering how he’d survive in the Southside but how he could have fun in the shitty place. Sure, she was crazy and had passed on her bipolar disorder to him, but he loves her in this terrifying, fucked up way that makes his throat close up and his heart ache.

He doesn’t share this with Fiona when they’re relaxing in the hot tub. He tells her he simply misses Monica and how freakish he feels when he sees no one else except maybe Frank mourning her. Fiona’s eyes hold pity and the slightest bit of confusion, but Ian thinks that’s fair considering Monica never did shit for Fiona except give birth to her, and he sometimes wonders if Fiona hates Monica for that too. Monica let everyone in the family down except for Ian because they were vastly different – he and Monica got along because he didn’t inherit any of Frank’s dumbass genes, he got Monica’s instead. They related to each other and he leant as heavily on her as she did on him. He hated her tendency of running away but he can honestly say now that he understands it, how much ever he despises it.

“I’m heading in,” Fiona says after a while of them splashing around. “You coming?”

“In a while,” Ian replies.

“Love you, Ian,” his older sister murmurs, kissing his forehead as she gets out and walks towards the house.

“I love you too,” Ian whispers when she’s gone.

Fiona has raised him and supported him as much, if not _more_ than their mother had. Even when he revealed he wanted to join ROTC and join the army when he grew up, Fiona had simply smiled and told him to be the best and to not worry about the money. When he got his job at the store, she made sure he stayed on top of his work and stayed up nights to help him understand his school work despite the fact she had dropped out before she had learnt half of the stuff he was studying. When she found out about Mickey, she tried her best to include him in family things even though it was clear he didn’t belong and no qualms on joining anyway. She didn’t like him, but she knew Ian did and she made the effort. Ian appreciated that.

He remembers a summer night when Fiona had asked him and Mickey to join her for a movie. Surprisingly, everyone was off doing something else and the three of them spent the night binging the _Die Hard_ movies and drinking cans of beers. Mickey and Fiona were relaxed, and Ian had spent the night curled up in between while they cracked jokes about the most random things.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a phone starts to ring. He shakes himself out of his stupor and stretches over the side of the hot tub and notices the phone that he was sure wasn’t there before.

He flips it open and settles back into the tub. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself, Red,” Mickey says. “How you holdin’ up?”

“Terrible,” Ian answers honestly. “What about you?”

“Not as bad off as you, I think,” the older man chuckles. “I’m in this place called Salvatierra. It’s supposed to be pretty or some shit, I don’t know.”

“Mick, can you be a little more careful?”

“I’m okay, man,” Mickey says. “I told you, I got friends.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ian says uncertainly.

“So, why’re you feeling terrible?” Mickey asks after a moment.

“Uh,” Ian pauses. “Monica died.”

“Oh shit,” Mickey says, surprised. “How?”

“Brain tumour,” Ian says. “I just –”

“What?” Mickey asks after Ian is silent for over a minute.

“I miss her,” he admits. “No one else really does because let’s be honest, she was a shit mother. But I miss her.”

“Gallagher,” Mickey says slowly. “Are you feeling bad ‘cus you miss your dead mom? I think that’s okay, Ian, however shitty she was.”

“I also fucked a chub because of it.”

“What?” Mickey’s voice cracks as he bursts out laughing. “You did _what_?”

“I fucked a chub,” Ian repeats, giggling a little as well.

“_Why?_” Mickey manages to get out in between laughs. “Why would you do that, man?”

“Well, uh,” Ian stops laughing a little. “Trevor suggested it.”

“Trevor, huh?” Mickey stops laughing as well.

“Yeah,” Ian takes a breath. “I –”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey says, and Ian can almost _see_ the clenched fist and the hard stare. “You gotta be happy somehow.”

“Right.”

“So, what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? Ian hasn’t had anyone ask that before. Everyone asked how he was feeling and whether he was holding up okay.

What was wrong? His mom died, that’s what’s wrong. The shittiest mom in the world, who showed up with ditzy partners – once a lesbian, once a druggie, once a stranger – and lies, who came with mismatched toys, who dumped baby after baby on his older sister’s lap. She died, leaving behind 70 pounds of meth and heartbreak – what a mother!

“I –” Ian sputters.

“Hey,” Mickey says softly. “Let it out.”

“I don’t know,” Ian says, thinking about how nice it’d be if Mickey was here, beside him. “She was my _mom_. I miss her. All the time. Fuck. She was never here, ever, you know. She didn’t come to my ROTC shit, she didn’t tell me to not work because she would pay for shit – that was Fiona. God, all Monica was good at was being a terrible mom and an amazing druggie.”

Mickey chuckles. “Her and Frank did all sorts of shit, man. I’ll be surprised if there’s something out there that they _didn’t _snort or smoke.”

Ian smiles. Frank and Monica, the perfect pair of fuck-ups. They went on to create even more fuck-ups, not even one kid who ended up sane and healthy. Jesus, Liam ingested cocaine when he was barely a toddler.

“She supported me,” Ian says. “Whatever it was – joining the army, being gay, doing shit I liked. She supported me, just like she would support any random person on the street. That was a good part of her, you know. Probably also why Frank loved her so much. Man, whatever shit you wanted to do, however simple or extremely fucked up, she’d support you with no question. I liked that. Feeling supported, feeling free from worrying. She made me feel good, Mick.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “My, uh,” he coughs. “My mom was like that too. Mama was so fucking sweet, man. She gave birth to six kids for that motherfucker, and he still fucked behind her back.”

Ian had forgotten that Mickey’s mom had also died. It was years ago, when Mickey had whispered it to him once, when things were better and they held each other in the middle of the night. He’d told him about little shopping trips his mom took him and Mandy on, the sweets she snuck into her purse for them and the hugs that kept them warm through the night.

“Tell me about her,” Ian says.

“She wasn’t like soft or nothing,” Mickey continues gruffly. “Man, she could scream up a storm when she wanted to. I must’ve been 4 or something, and I just remember her fucking going at it with Terry, yelling at him for hitting me. She didn’t shy from him, didn’t ever let him touch her the wrong way. They loved each other in this crazy, fucked up way. Man, I don’t even know how it worked but it did. He did all his shit away from the house, and she was the only one who could deal with him when he was being a right bitch.”

Ian swallows. “Mick.”

“What?”

“I –” Ian stops. What’s he going to say? He loves Mickey?

_I love you_, he’d say. _I love you and I’m fucking Trevor because he’s the only person who makes me feel even close to how I felt when I was with you. I wish I went to Mexico with you. I wish things weren’t so fucked up, and Sammi wasn’t a bitch, and we went on that date to Sizzlers, and I really fucking wish I went to Mexico with you. _

“I wish Monica wasn’t dead,” he says instead.

“Yeah. Well, you’re gonna be fine. You know that, right?”

Ian hums in agreement. Yeah, he’ll be fine. He’s not going to break down or fuck up his life –

“I gotta go,” Mickey says quickly. Ian gets a flashback of him saying those same exact words last time. “I’ll talk to you sometime.”

“Bye,” Ian says, despite knowing Mickey’s not going to be on the line anymore.


	3. Unwanted Feelings and Unanswered Queries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are – are you drunk?” Ian asks, surprised. “Why are you calling me drunk? And who the fuck are you employing for placing these phones? They’re fucking creepy, man.”  
“I had a little bit too much, yeah,” Mickey laughs. “And I just tell them to do what they want, LOL.”  
“Did you just say LOL?”

**Song of the Day: [_Can I Call You Tonight?_ ](https://youtu.be/sLGW7xUQFFk)by Dayglow**

Ian isn’t looking out for people bumping into him anymore.

He replays his two phone calls with Mickey over and over in his mind, all the time. He thinks about it during work, he thinks about it while grabbing burritos with Lip, he thinks about it when his hand disappears under his sweatpants at night.

Ian can’t get Mickey’s husky, yet warm voice from his mind. He’s perpetually lost in memories now, constantly thinking about the first rushed sex, the first rushed kiss, the last bruising kiss. He remembers the time he ran away from the group home to visit Mickey and their precious time spent together before Terry found them and Svetlana entered their lives. He remembers Mickey vying for Ian’s attention while he dated Lloyd. He remembers sharing beers in the field after beating each other up viciously.

When he realized he couldn’t fully remember the details of the night he left Mickey, Ian had reacted with horror. He called in sick and stayed home that day, drinking orange juice and looking up ways to recollect his lost memories. He only remembered the haze of smoke and confusion, the sex, going to the bank, and deciding to not go to Mexico.

What did they talk about? What had Mickey been up to in prison? He always had the most ridiculous stories and remembering the animation in his voice makes Ian’s heart hurt.

A lot of things make his heart hurt these days.

He has fleeting moments when he feels like crying, just sobbing until his tears run dry and his eyes hurt. They happen at random, odd moments that hold no significant meaning. He does cry, sometimes, when he is alone and safe in a room he once shared with his brothers and his boyfriend. He would cry safely then, hot tears spilling down his face and his throat closing up, forcing out choked sobs that make him clench his fists.

He cries because he knows he is alone, he is withdrawn, he is bipolar and single and madly in love with a man he can never have again and still grieving for a mother he never fully knew.

He cries because he is overwhelmed by feelings of failure that make him daydream about what-ifs. What if he had stuck to the army? Would he have been happy, fulfilling a childhood dream under a name he stole? Would he have been happy if he continued dancing in the club, relying on pills and money and sex, constantly at a high and never feeling the lows due to the influx of drugs?

Would he have been happy if he went with Mickey?

“Dude!”

“Huh? What?” Ian looks up at the man beside him, staring at him oddly. He’s been sitting at a bench outside of the café for a long time now, he notices absently. His coffee’s gone cold.

“Your phone, man,” the man says. “It’s been ringing for ages.”

“Oh,” Ian says dumbly. “Thanks.”

He takes out his phone, but it’s not ringing. There’s a phone right beside him that’s ringing shrilly.

“That’s not my pho –” Ian stops when he sees the spot beside him empty. What the hell?

“Hello,” he says warily, accepting the call.

“Long time, no see, Firecrouch,” Mickey slurs.

“Are – are you drunk?” Ian asks, surprised. “Why are you calling me drunk? And who the fuck are you employing for placing these phones? They’re fucking creepy, man.”

“I had a little bit too much, yeah,” Mickey laughs. “And I just tell them to do what they want, LOL.”

“Did you just _say_ LOL?”

“LOL!!” Mickey exclaims. “Did you know about these words man, they’re so fuckin’ funny. There’s SMH, TTYL –”

“Mickey, what the fuck,” Ian says, bemused.

“They’re, like, delightful, man,” Mick says. “Where you at, anyway?”

“Sitting on a bench,” Ian says. He doesn’t mention his ass hurts from sitting here all day and he’s been wallowing over his sad, depressing life and his bothersome feelings. “How are you doing?”

“I’m so drunk,” Mickey laughs, and Ian feels like he’s on a second-hand high. “It’s so fuckin’ nice here, man, it feels like I could be happy here forever.”

“When’s the last time you felt like that, huh?” Ian asks, smiling sadly.

“I –” Mickey stops. “Felt like that with you, you know.”

“Me too, Mick.” _I wish I went with you._

“It’s fine, man,” Mickey sounds cheerful. “I’m learnin’ so much slang here. And there’s this kid, I don’t know whose daughter she is, but she’s showing me these six second videos –”

“Are you watching _Vines_?” Ian asks, grinning. “Tell me you’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not, I swear!” Mickey laughs. “They’re so fucking, fucking,”

“Delightful?”

“_Yeah_,” Mickey’s still laughing. “There’s this, okay, so,” he clears his throat. “This bitch empty. _YEET_.”

Ian thinks there’s a sound of a bottle breaking in the background, but he’s too busy laughing his ass off to be sure.

“There’s another one, dude, wait,” Mickey tries to stop laughing. “I gotta get Ana ‘cuz she does this one real good. Ana! Ana, _ven para aca_!”

“How old is this Ana?” Ian asks curiously.

“She’s nine, I think,” Mickey says absently. “Ana, show him, _por favor_, please.”

“Hello,” Ana says into the phone and Ian immediately greets her back.

“When there’s too much drama at school,” Ana pauses dramatically. “All you gotta do is walk awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.”

“_Gracias _Ana,” Mickey laughs alongside Ian, who’s struggling to catch his breath.

“Well, other than catching up to the rest of the 21st century, what else have you been up to?” Ian asks when they’ve both calmed down.

“Well,” Mickey says in an odd tone. “It’s going pretty good. Not much to say.”

“What are you hiding?”

“OK, you caught me,” Mickey says defeatedly. Ian wants to smile at how instantly the man gave in, but his heart nearly stops at the next sentence. “I feel like someone’s gonna rat on me soon.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, this dude, Carlos, man. He’s fuckin’ sketchy, and people have been saying he could be a friend of the pigs.”

“I – Get out of there then,” Ian demands. “Stay the fuck away from Carlos, and just make sure your ass is safe and away from fucking prison.”

“Yeah, okay, man,” Mickey chuckles. “Calm down, I’ve been doing this longer than you have. And you’ve never done this.”

“I ran from the army, dumbass,” Ian reminds him.

“You were high off your mind!”

“I still managed,” Ian insists. “I was fine until Sammi ratted me out.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, and Ian wants to smack himself across the face. Sammi was one of the biggest factors for the downfall of their volatile relationship, and Ian brought the matter up as easily as discussing the weather.

“Sorry,” he says quietly.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Ian disagrees. “It’s not fine, it’s not okay, everything feels like shit and nothing is _fine_, Mickey.”

“Ian,” Mickey says wearily, all traces of inebriation gone from his voice. “It’s fine. Seriously. Stop stressing, man.”

Ian doesn’t have the courage to confess to Mickey all he’s been doing the past few days is ‘stressing’. In the midst of being lost in his misery – and a lot of his misery has to do with Mickey – he thinks about the other man and how he’s doing. Is he safe? Is he hurt?

Some days, when Ian’s in a particularly self-deprecating mood, he wonders if Monica ever thought about him or any of her children like this. During the breaks between her highs and partners, when she was just _alone_, did she ever wonder about them and their well-being?

“I’m actually, uh,” Mickey’s voice cuts through his musing, and Ian’s heart stops. Is he seeing someone?

“You what?”

“I’m _scared_,” Mickey mutters. “I feel like Carlos and others like him are everywhere here. I think it’s time I go somewhere else, man. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian says. “You need to run again. Don’t you?”

“I’ve always been on the run,” Mickey reminds him. “Never stopped.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, knowing if he were beside Mickey, he’d be running too. Would that be better? The question arises once more: would he be happy?

Ian thinks he would be happy doing anything, as long as he has Mickey by his side.

“You still with Trevor?”

“Does it matter?” Ian asks.

The call is silent for a long moment.

“I’m gonna go,” Mickey says. “I should figure out what to do.”

“Mickey –” Ian says, desperate to keep the conversation flowing. “Just, stay a minute.”

“Oh,” the man hesitates on the line. “How’re you feeling now, with Monica gone?”

“I’m okay,” Ian says, definitely not okay. “I feel good. What about you, you missing Mandy? Missing home?”

“Nah man,” Mickey sounds cheerful. “Mandy can take care of herself, and I’m enjoying the booze here too much to miss home. The guys here are pretty hot too, you know.”

Ian ignores the flare of jealousy that courses through him. “Nice,” he manages to get out. “Hope you have a good time.”

“I’m kiddin’, man,” Mickey laughs. “They’re OK for a fuck, but I’m not dropping to my knees with a ring anytime soon, don’t worry.”

Ian doesn’t feel any better.

“I really should go, Red,” Mickey says. “Gotta start packing.”

“Be careful,” Ian says automatically.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, and Ian thinks he can sense a hint of warmth in his tone. “I will.”

And the line goes dead.


	4. OK Google, rewind my life, thanks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Milkovich house was never the cleanest, and it certainly wasn’t the day Ian and Mickey had sex for the first time. There was smoke hanging heavy in the air, and a scent of stale booze that faded into the background, but it was the shrill noise of a phone ringing that disrupts Ian from focusing fully on Mickey, that fucking phone…  
Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I just wanted to add a few quick CW: Mandy's rape is mentioned in the chapter. It's not in depth and more so in passing, but if you're more comfortable not reading about it, stop reading when you reach the italicized 'Terry...', and you can continue reading three paragraphs later, at 'Out of nowhere, Ian remembers'! 
> 
> Also, there's a lot of introspection on Ian's part in this chapter, and I tried to show some growth on his part? Hope that makes sense??

**Song of the Day: ** [ ** _Yes, I’m Changing _ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_cMCvudZBs) **by Tame Impala**

Ian’s fucking furious with Fiona.

He can’t understand why she’s not on his side for this; he’s just trying to figure out a place for homeless kids to stay. Can’t the residents at her building just fuck off for a while and have empathy? He’s trying to see it from her point of view but still can’t grasp it; all he sees is her face when she realizes he’s a nuisance.

Deep down, Ian knows he’s being slightly unreasonable and behaving a little like a maniac. It probably has something to do with the dosage change of his meds, and Ian is trying, he’s _really fucking_ _trying_ to be better than Monica and not be an absolute asshole to Fiona and the rest of his family.

What can he do?

He has no friends – his EMT friends are wary of him, and the friends he shared with Trevor aren’t that keen on talking to just him – and no rational sibling that he’s really close to anymore. It hurts to realize this, but when it’s dark and his mind is a little clearer, he knows he just needs to get away from everything and everyone for a while.

He brings this up during group. Yes, he goes to group therapy now; it was a struggle at first to open up, but he’s now grateful for the ragtag group he’s a part of where they all talk about living with bipolar disorder. It’s a place Ian feels understood, where there’s no confusion in the others’ eyes when they listen to one another speak.

“If you want to be alone, why don’t you just…go be alone?” Roja asks when he’s finished, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Uh,” Ian says smartly when everyone looks at him expectantly.

So, he gets up at 8AM, packs a bag and nicks a tent from his ROTC days, leaves a note on his bed just in case someone wants to find him – ha! –, buys a couple grams of weed from his old dealer, Clark, and sets off to the woods.

It’s a not a rash decision, Ian thinks, when he stops at a Wal-Mart to grab some essential snacks. As he pays for bags of chips, a case of water bottles and canned foods, he’s really warming up to the idea and can’t wait to set up his tent and just sleep surrounded by the sounds of owls and nature.

By the time it’s 6 in the evening, he’s settled in a cabin – the park ranger Ian met strongly suggested he spend the night in the secluded cabin instead of the ground.

“There’s lots of fools running around, fucking up the place,” the ranger grumbles as he drew Ian the directions to the cabin. “There used to be beauty in camping, y’know, now it’s just tossin’ around beer cans and having no respect for the space you’re using.”

“Er, right,” Ian agrees awkwardly. “Fuck ‘em,” he adds.

The ranger looks an Ian approvingly. “Fuck ‘em.” He nods. “Here, follow this path and you’ll find the cabin. And if you find yourself any trouble, you just call me, boy.”

Ian feels warm when he remembers the old ranger’s fierce protective face. He can’t remember the last time he felt this feeling, this feeling of being _cared for_ and _protected_ and fucking hell, he’s projecting his feelings of loneliness on an old man who just loves nature.

He settles into the cabin and starts a fire, shivering a little as the temperature drops. It’s chilly in the August Illinois nighttime and Ian is sharply reminded of his previous camping experiences – he’d be huddled with the other boys and they would pass around a stolen beer can – or maybe a bottle of Smirnoff if someone felt particularly brave about stealing from their parents – and whisper secrets and childish fantasies.

Ian smiles as he remembers contemplating life with a guy whose name he can’t remember now. They talked about their futures and what they’d achieve; they stared at the stars above them with alcohol keeping them warm, and he remembers getting – and giving – his first handjob right there, under the canopy of stars to a boy who he spilled his heart to but never spoke to again.

Sometimes, Ian feels this burning pull in his chest when he thinks about times like those. His childhood wasn’t normal – and neither was any of his siblings’ – but _fuck_, he wishes he had one so called ‘normal’ experience, just one moment that was magical and special and nothing was fucked up. Nearly all of his ‘firsts’ were rushed or in unideal situations – is there any need to mention his first relationship being with a middle-aged closeted man with two children? – and Ian hates it. He hates that while him and his family were cleaning up after Frank’s shit and saving every possible penny to be able to live in their home, other people his age were living without these stresses; they just lived and were happy.

_It’s more complicated than that, dipshit,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Lip tells him in his head. And Ian knows that, he fucking knows that things weren’t all bright and shiny for everyone and it certainly wasn’t only the Gallagher family who got the short end of the stick. Jesus, living in the South Side made it abundantly clear that people were struggling all around them – people had their fair share of shitty parents, shitty partners, shitty jobs, and sure as fuck shitty lives.

He sighs and reaches for his bag; he came here to relax, and relax he would, damn it to hell. Enough with regretting things he cannot change, and enough with wallowing over past boyfriends and life experiences that left him feeling like shit. He’s going to get high, eat chips, make himself a tuna sandwich and pray to whoever’s listening that a bear doesn’t kill him tonight.

* * *

Three joints in, and Ian is feeling fucking great, thank you very much. He’s gazing at the fire, relishing the silence and vows to himself that he’s going to do this every month. It’s freeing, being here, and he can take his mind off of his troubling life and just…think for a second.

Between the haze of his thoughts and the music playing in the background, he doesn’t register the ringing cell phone in his bag.

Ian feels like an imposter sometimes; like he’s a teenager trapped in an adult body who has to deal with adult responsibilities and finances that he barely understands. He can now legally drink alcohol – never mind the fact he’s been drinking since he was probably 13 – but he still feels like the scared young boy who marched into Mickey’s room full of adrenaline that first time.

Hmm. He hasn’t thought about that in a while.

He remembers tightening his fist around the crowbar, chanting ‘_you got this, you got this, you got this,_’ in his head, ignoring the urge to sit down and assess why he was doing this more so for himself than for Kash.

He remembers Mickey’s lazy yawn and his dirty hands abruptly grabbing him and throwing him against the wall, both of them fighting with one another, slapping, pulling, stopping. Ian gazed at Mickey for a long moment, wondering if Mickey is finally going to kill him, knowing that the other man’s hand definitely grazed Ian’s half hard-on.

Suddenly, Ian understands. He still isn’t sure whether it was the dark look in Mick’s eyes that gave it away or just a sixth sense, but Ian understands, and he’s pulling his shirt off and all he can think about is getting Mickey under him and fucking him into the mattress.

The Milkovich house was never the cleanest, and it certainly wasn’t the day Ian and Mickey had sex for the first time. There was smoke hanging heavy in the air, and a scent of stale booze that faded into the background, but it was the shrill noise of a phone ringing that disrupts Ian from focusing fully on Mickey, that fucking phone…

Oh.

A phone is ringing in the cabin and Ian is pretty sure it’s coming from his bag, which shouldn’t be possible considering his phone is actually scattered on the table along with his wallet and keys. So, this only means one thing.

“Hey Mickey,” Ian greets into the phone.

“’Sup,” Mickey replies, sounding a little irate.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is like, my third time calling you, man. What were you doing?”

“Oh, uh,” Ian pauses as he readjusts his pants. “Yeah, nothing, I’m just smoking and thinking about, y’know. Everything.”

“Sure,” Mickey says in a skeptical tone. “Where are you? Don told me you were almost out of the city when he dropped off the phone.”

“Yeah, I’m camping,” Ian gets up and begins the process of making a sandwich. “Well, not camping. I’m in a cabin. In the woods.”

“Trevor with ya?”

“No, Mick, I’m alone.” Ian puts the phone on speaker and mixes the tuna with mayonnaise and packets of Tacobell hot sauce. “What have you been doing? And, seriously, you gotta tell me one day how random strangers are stashing phones everywhere I go.”

Mickey lets out a bark of laugher, and Ian smiles in response. It’s been so long since he’s made the other man laugh, he can’t believe he’s forgotten the rush it gives him to know that it’s _him_ who made Mickey stop scowling for a minute and just enjoy himself.

“They’re just old pals from juvie, or friends of a friend,” Mickey explains. “I just tell them to do whatever they want and text me with details. I guess they’ve been having fun.”

“Did you know about the time the phone was by the blow-up pool?” Ian asks, suddenly curious. “I was so freaked out when I thought about it after – that hot tub was literally just being used by us!”

“Yeah, I remember,” Mickey laughs. “That was Katie, I think, she used to pickpocket. She has a wicked sense of humor too.”

“Wish it was you handing me a phone,” Ian says absently. _Fuck_, he thinks a second later.

Mickey doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, me too,” he says softly. “I’m not that far from the border, actually. I’ve been thinking about just fucking it and going back to prison. They can let me out for good behavior or something if I keep my head down.”

“Shit,” Ian says, because what _do_ you say to that? Turning himself in is the right thing to do, Ian knows this, and he knows Mickeys knows it too.

“What,” Ian clears his throat. He pauses and takes a long moment to gather his thoughts, and Mickey stays silent, just like Ian knows he will. This is unchartered territory they’ve teetering on, and Ian isn’t Mickey’s boyfriend or his ex right now – he’s his friend. He’s worried, and he needs to be sure that Mickey knows what he’s saying and the lingering high from the weed Ian’s smoked makes this situation difficult to maneuver.

“Why?” Ian simply asks. _Why now?_

Mickey’s quiet too, for a few seconds. “I’m tired of running,” he says at last. “All this looking over your shoulder, trying to figure out who’s going to snitch, it’s fucking exhausting. I’m tired. I just want to serve my time or whatever and spend whatever else is left of my life quietly and, I don’t know, take up knitting or some shit.”

Ian lets out a short laugh at that, even though his chest feels tight. “Mickey Milkovich? Knitting?”

“Fine, not knitting,” Mickey laughs as well. “I don’t know, honestly. I just –” he falters.

“What?” Ian asks gently.

“I don’t want to end up like Terry.”

Ian hums in agreement. _Terry…_

God, Frank is a shitshow, but Terry is just pure evil. Frank harassed his kids emotionally and mentally, but it’s rare for it to get violent. Someone always stopped it before it got too far, plus, Frank was a coward at heart and bizarrely did draw the line most times at physical violence. Terry had no such problem. Terry didn’t bat an eye when he hit anyone, his kids – nephews, nieces, whatever – included. To him, punching a person was as normal as breathing; violence wasn’t just the solution, it was second nature.

Jesus, Terry even raped his own fucking daughter.

It still makes Ian sick when he thinks of Mandy snarling at him to _shut up_ and that _it only happens sometimes…he just mistakes me for Mom, that’s all._ It had taken Ian several difficult conversations to get her to let down her walls and see how much the incidents actually damaged her. Mandy had admitted talking about it had helped her in some ways, but it never fucking helped Ian’s anger, his pure, unadulterated _rage_ when he thinks about Terry and what an absolute garbage human being he is.

Out of nowhere, Ian remembers a night when he and Lip were watching compilations of Hell’s Kitchen videos and someone had said, ‘_Raj, you’re a waste of life._’ Ian wants to laugh darkly at the randomness of the memory but it pretty much sums up exactly how he feels about Terry: he’s a waste of life.

“You there, Firecrouch?”

“Shit, yeah,” Ian snaps out of it. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something.”

“While I opened up about how I don’t want to be like my terrifying father?” Mickey tries to joke, but it falls flat.

“I’m sorry,” Ian apologizes immediately. “I just hate him. So much.”

“Yeah, well, try growing up with him,” Mickey deadpans. “Ian, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, shoot,” Ian says, but there’s an anxiety building inside of him.

“Did you – did you ever care about me?”

“Wha –”

“I know you did, obviously,” Mickey continues. “But, fuck, Ian, sometimes I think about us and I feel like all you did was care about yourself, right up until the very fucking end.”

Ian’s taken aback. Because Mickey isn’t wrong, and while it hurts to admit that, Ian’s grown from being the shitty young adult whose world only revolved around him. He’s trying to take responsibility and make something out of himself. He thinks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he can’t articulate how much he regrets everything in mere words. “I’m really fucking sorry, Mick.”

“It’s okay,” Mickey says slowly. “There’s just been a lot of time to think about this when you’re alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian repeats, suddenly desperate for Mickey to understand. “I don’t know why I just kept being so shitty and so fucking _angsty_ like a teenager –”

“To be fair, you were a teenager,” Mickey points out.

“Yes,” Ian acquiesces. “I’m still sorry. I’m sorry for treating you like shit when you were finally opening up. You were finally ready to move forward, and even when you were in prison, you were ready to wait. Fuck, you even got that stupid tattoo,” Ian laughs wildly. “Fuck.”

“You were manic, Ian,” Mickey says softly. “And don’t insult the tattoo, man,” he adds. “I still like it.”

“Just because I was manic doesn’t mean I wasn’t a dick,” Ian says, just as softly. It’s taken him a few group therapy sessions to get through before he fully understood the message: your mental illness doesn’t excuse your shitty behavior. You need to take responsibility.

“You were a dick, weren’t you,” Mickey chuckles. “That day you visited and promised you’d wait was such a lie, man. You didn’t even try.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian says again, even though the words don’t sound as sincere anymore. “I was fucking dumb. You’re a catch.”

“I _am_ a catch, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Ian smiles. “I’m trying to be better,” he says after a minute. “I really am.”

“I’m happy for you,” Mickey says, and he really seems like he means it. “I am,” he insists, as if he knows exactly what Ian’s thinking. “You’re a good person, Ian.”

Ian feels a sob stuck in his throat. Leave it to his first love to reduce him to tears with a simple compliment. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he can’t be doing this again – _he can’t be falling for Mickey again_.

Yet, it’s crystal clear that Ian never stopped being in love with Mickey. The past few phone calls have only confirmed how he feels. His yearning to be next to the man, his deeply situated regret for not going with him – but also his secret relief for not going, but that’s something Ian doesn’t think about very often – his disinterest for another partner.

“Ian,” Mickey’s voice brings him out of his musing. “Stop getting lost in your head, man. Come back to me.”

“I’m here,” Ian says. “Sorry. Do you want to talk about wanting to turn yourself in and all?”

“Not really,” Mickey replies uneasily. “I’m just thinking, and I’m high as fuck right now. I’ll laugh at myself tomorrow or something.”

“Hey, same here,” Ian goes back to working on his abandoned tuna sandwich. “I got hungry, so I’m making a sandwich right now.”

“I remember you always asking for a tuna sandwich when you’re high,” Mickey snickers. “That shit’s nasty, man.”

“Why are you hating on tuna sandwiches?” Ian asks, a little offended. He knows Mickey’s partly joking – he always ate the sandwiches Ian made, but he would squabble with him, begging Ian to make mozzarella sticks instead.

Ian never made mozzarella sticks. He regrets it now.

“It’s like chicken but _cheap_,” Mickey drones. “Plus, all you do is add mayonnaise and hot sauce, can’t you…do more?”

“At least I make things!” Ian says, affronted. “All you’re willing to do is heat up pizza bagels, or buy things, man.”

“I know how to cook, though.”

“Well, you never cooked for me,” Ian takes a bite of his sandwich. Mm. It’s tangy and spicy and _delicious_.

“You don’t even make anything besides tuna sandwiches,” Mickey mutters. “At least I can make pasta.”

“Pasta –” Ian chokes. “I’ve had your fucking pasta, you overcooked it! You didn’t even add spices-”

“I added salt!”

“_Mickey_,” Ian says, scandalized. “Salt – what the _fuck_ – you need to add spices, you piece of shit, not just salt!”

“Well, fuck you,” Mickey says amicably, and Ian’s thrust into memories of when everything was alright, and the two of them would argue over petty things in the kitchen. They’d argue over what to make, start something, inevitably burn something, and Svetlana would smack them both upside their heads and make something edible and often delicious.

Fuck, Ian misses those days. Where did it all go wrong?

“I guess the pasta was fucked,” Mickey continues musing. “We had pizza and wings later, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, we did,” Ian snickers. “Your pasta was not good, Mick, I’m sorry.”

“Oh well,” says Mickey, not affected in the slightest. “I should get going soon. Don’t want to give anyone reason to be suspicious.”

“Yeah,” Ian sets down his food, his hunger gone. “This – this was short. That was my fault, so I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t worry. I was a little pissed I might have disturbed you in the middle of fucking someone or something,” Mickey attempts to joke.

“No, you didn’t,” Ian says, wondering if he should mention what he was thinking about before he registered the phone ringing. _Fuck it_. “I was thinking of us, actually.”

“Oh?”

“The first time,” Ian specifies.

“I haven’t thought about that in a while,” Mickey says, and Ian thinks his voice has gone a little low, but he isn’t sure if it’s just his imagination.

Ian hums, and vaguely wonders if they’re going to engage in phone sex, a path they haven’t ventured on yet. He could think about how easy that’d be, Mickey huskily telling him to tease himself, to run his hands all over his body first –

_Pull yourself the fuck together_, Ian sternly tells himself, firmly ignoring the twitch of interest in his pants.

“Do you think about it a lot?” Mickey suddenly asks. “About us? Fucking,” he adds, as if Ian had somehow forgotten what they were talking about.

“Sometimes,” Ian admits.

Mickey swallows on the other end of the line. “That’s hot, Gallagher,” he finally says. “You’re gonna kill me one day with this shit.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Ian protests. “Maybe I just think about it and don’t do anything.” _Liar_.

“Right,” Mickey snorts. “Whatever shit we had, there was no problem with our fucking. It was good, hard, fast –”

Ian lets slip an involuntary groan, and immediately feels embarrassed.

“Thanks for proving me right,” Mickey says smugly, and Ian kind of wants to punch him in the face.

“Get the fuck outta here,” Ian mutters, itching to take care of his…situation – but of course, he’s not going to actually admit it out loud.

“Yeah, I’ll leave you to give yourself a lousy handjob,” Mickey sounds like he’s grinning, and Ian hates that the other man knows him so well. “I do actually gotta go, man. But remember me when you put your hands under your pants, when you stroke –”

“Shut up,” Ian groans, defiantly ignoring the voice in his brain that’s demanding _more, more, more!_

“Talk to you soon, Ian,” Mickey says before hanging up, and Ian lets himself believe it’s a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you liked this chapter, and what you'd like to see - or think will happen - in the next 2 chapters, or if you didn't like something! Thanks for reading guys, gals, and non-binary pals, I really really appreciate it. <3


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